


De Novo

by betweenthetwo



Category: The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-24
Updated: 2014-09-24
Packaged: 2018-02-18 15:30:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2353403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betweenthetwo/pseuds/betweenthetwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That’s the thing, with Finn: it’s so easy to pretend she’s the one helping him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	De Novo

They pumped him full of morphine after the surgery and the nurse warned him to be careful, not to use the Percocet they gave him too often, that the most common side effect of “the kind of trauma” he’d faced was addiction. There was a social commentary there: that surviving a courtroom shootout was a “kind of trauma” that people went through, that it had side effects that had been studied and quantified.

 

(He hated the morphine. Pharmaceuticals were never going to be his problem, not after Amelia. It was a relief when the haze wore off and the pain came crashing back, centering itself in his shoulder, reminding him that it happened and someone died and it wasn’t him.)

 

When _she_ came, he was almost glad of it. He’d seen her before, on television, and in the courthouse, but he’d never seen her like that. He’d never seen anyone like that, not even Ann after they lost the baby. She was kind, of course, polite, proper that way politicians are. She asked about Will Gardner and he was confused, tried to remember how you’re supposed to act when the Governor’s wife visits you in hospital on the second worst day of your life and asks about the man you held in your arms as he died.

 

He realized later, in her apartment, that Will was not a colleague to her, not a boss, not a legal rival. He wasn’t even a friend: he was some dark, secret part of her, some forbidden or mistimed thing, the kind of _what if_ that lies under your skin, waiting for a vulnerable moment. It wasn’t a welcome realization, even then. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to know more about her; he just didn’t want to know _that._

 

* * *

 

Diane is joining Florrick Agos, and Cary isn’t happy and she wonders if they’ll even have to talk about whose name comes first, or if Cary will take Carey and Robin and the others and start Agos & Associates. Or Agos Zepps. Or join David Lee and Louis Canning in the carcass of Will’s life’s work.

 

That thought deserves a glass of wine.

 

She’s got to stop this habit: “deserves”. That’s not how the world works.  Peter is the Governor of Illinois.

 

Her mother says she needs antidepressants, and this might be the first time Veronica’s been right about anything about Alicia since she was ten years old. That doesn’t mean she’s going to listen: she likes the pain. It’s all she has left of him. But that’s not quite right, either.

 

* * *

 

It’s late, and he’s tired, but when she calls he answers because that’s all he knows to do now. She asks if he can meet her for a drink and his jacket is in his hand before he even says yes, what bar, what time.

 

* * *

It’s late and she’s tired, but when she calls he answers and she falters, invites him for a drink. She’d only meant to check in, to see how he’s doing at work. 

 

That’s the thing, with Finn: it’s so easy to pretend she’s the one helping him.

 

* * *

And here he is: eleven thirty on a Tuesday night, sitting at a bar in Oldtown, nursing a beer and waiting for her like this is some kind of date. It would be laughable –the idea that this, this _grief counseling_ , could be romantic –if she wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’s ever met.

 

If she were anyone else, if this were any other situation, he would have grazed her fingers with his as he passed her a drink, would have placed his hand on the small of her back when they stood to leave. He would have kissed her by now. He knows the dance, although he’s out of practice. And sometimes, when she laughs, that rare, gorgeous laugh, his instinct is to lean into her, to test the boundaries of their intimacy.

 

But then he remembers: She’s the governor’s wife. He’s not divorced. She’s in love with a dead man. She’s a colleague. She’s in love with a dead man.

 

It doesn’t hurt like a bullet to the shoulder, like a baby dead five months too soon, like a marriage withered into nothing, but it’s something and it aches.

 

* * *

 

Will said “You don’t even realize how awful you are.”

 

He said “You were poison.”

 

She collects the things he said in her mind. Stores them in boxes. Knows she shouldn’t dissect herself through his eyes, knows he distorted her.   But no one else was looking at her the way he was. 

 

She sees Finn, sitting at the bar. She imagines Will, sitting there. Would he smile if he saw her? Would he walk away? 

 

Finn notices her, waves her over. Across the bar, she feels her pulse pick up.

 

Will said “You’re confusing things.”

 

* * *

He decided against her, for what it’s worth. In the ride down to earth in her elevator, the first night he really saw her, he thought about her powerful husband and her kids and her law firm and her nice apartment and he reasoned: no. Stay away. She had enough support, she had enough problems. So did he. Jeffrey Grant did not get to decide everything.

 

But when he saw her in daylight, with her makeup and her heels and her expensive suits, he still saw her eyes, brimming with tears, her lips, pulled raw by her teeth, her soul on display. And no matter what Eli Gold might insinuate about the end of his marriage, he’s never been the type to see someone hurting and walk away.

 

* * *

 

She knows how it looks, sitting next to him in a darkened bar, with their heads low, their arms almost touching.  She’s trying not to care, but caring is a hard habit to break.

 

He’s younger than her, she thinks, and he’s nothing like Will.  But when their eyes hold after too many glasses of wine, she feels that swooping, that flipping, that sinking, and she hates it.  She never wanted to feel that again, wanted that to be all his, all theirs. 

 

Learning the lines of his face, watching his fingers peel gently at the label on his beer, she realizes that her biggest mistake with Will was fear. She thought what she felt for him was unique, that if she gave herself to it, she would disappear. She thought that if he left her she would die, so she left him, and he died, and she’s still standing.

 

* * *

 

It’s not going to end well. But – what does?

 

Six months from now, two weeks, tomorrow: their professional interactions will turn sour.  He’ll push too hard against a client, she’ll go over his head to get a charge dropped or he’ll antagonize her with an aggressive bail motion and this will all be over.

 

It’s not that their jobs are incompatible, not really.  He – and she he thinks – has friends on the other side.  It’s that their jobs are the excuse.  If she calls him when she’s thinking about Will, or he agrees to meet her because he needs another hit: it’s work.  It’s professional.  But if they didn’t have that? 

 

He’ll be in this bar, alone, and she’ll be at home with a bottle of wine and it might be safer for his heart, healthier for her, but he’s not ready to say goodbye yet.

 

When Alicia smiles, it feels personal.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until he died that she realized how often his name entered conversation.  Her daughter, promising to call.  Her son, planning a trip home for Christmas.  Jackie, threatening to call Peter. 

 

I _will._ Every time, her heart stops, catches, restarts. 

 

Now, Finn asks her if she is going to have another glass of wine and she lets her body shift closer to him.

 

“I will.”

 


End file.
